Treachery of a Noble Heart
by AirPowerST
Summary: Jim Clarke is a criminal that wants his life in the Alliance back. When two quarians on the Citadel have the key to his success, he sees the opportunity to regain what was lost. But a certain grieving thief has a request for him—one that requires having to go through hell and back to achieve their goal. Alliances and friendships are born, but a looming threat arises. AU, OC/Tali.
1. Prologue: Determination is a Weapon

Treachery of a Noble Heart

Prologue: Determination is a Weapon

"_Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal." –Richard Puz_

_. . . _

**Full Summary:** Jim Clarke knows an opportunity when he sees one. For the past four years, his life has been devoted to doing one thing: getting his job back as an agent in the Alliance Intelligence Agency. When two quarians are on the run from Saren's men, he sees the key to his success—the key to getting his career back. But a grieving master thief approaches him with one request in mind, a request that involves his former partner in the Alliance Intelligence Agency. Along the way, Jim finds things that he never even thought that were possible; a close-knit group of friends, as well as someone that managed to break his barriers and make him _want_ to have some level of normalcy in his life—and that someone happens to be a quarian known as Tali'Zorah.

**Author's Note: **Welcome to my story. I am AirPowerST, and this is my first fanfic. It's an AU fanfiction, so if you're not into that, I urge you to check out other stories made by incredibly talented authors. As said in the summary, this story will contain an OC. Obviously, the prologue is very short, but the regular chapters are nowhere near as short as this—in fact, it's quite the opposite. Also, I want to thank JaliceAZ for beta reading, so if you have a chance to check out her stories, do so.

I do not own Mass Effect, and that's pretty obvious. I'm only playing with BioWare's toys for a while.

—AirPowerST.

**PS: **Special thanks go to Adrian von Ziegler. If it weren't for his music, I wouldn't find the passion to write anything. So if you're an author, please go check out his music on YouTube—it's completely astonishing.

**Another note (13/11/13): **This story is an AU, and it won't be centred around Commander Shepard, but mentions of the commander will be made. This is not a re-telling of the Mass Effect Trilogy.

. . .

Kasumi Goto knew something all too well: she was the best thief in the business. For years, she had played a monopoly that created a carefully built reputation as a thief. She was smart; she wasn't the most famous, but she was the best, and she intended to keep it that way. It was the only way that she could survive in such a shady business—if she didn't, she could get killed, and maybe even worse.

She licked her lips as she paced around the room. Her hands were clasped together in front of herself. If only Keiji hadn't slipped up; if only he hadn't made himself so infamous… then maybe he would still be alive, and most importantly, by her side.

The thief felt her chest ache; an uncontrollable, painful throbbing as she thought of her former partner. It was the single, most painful thing that she had ever felt in her entire life. She felt a familiar moisture form itself on her eyes. She shut them, trying to stop the tears from forming, but one of them escaped and ran down her cheek as if it were an inmate escaping from prison—always on the run, never stopping for anything; ignoring the bumps in the way until it reached the unstoppable: the fall. The tear fell from her chin and on to her boot; the thin layers of it moistening as more tears escaped her eyes.

Her head hung low, as if she were a child embarrassed of something bad she had done. But it wasn't out of embarrassment, no. It was out of many emotions that she couldn't describe. She felt a knot in her throat; an uncontrollable swelling in her chest; words forming on her mouth, but none came out. She struggled to breathe as she sobbed, her only solace now being the view of the apartment she had infiltrated—the eleventh story of the Tiberius Towers.

The Wards represented everything that she felt at the moment. The many lights were her emotions; the sky-cars that passed by were her thoughts—so many that she could not see in which direction they were going, but she knew that they were there. The darkness of the night represented the predominant emotions: anger, sadness.

She was mad—no, enraged—with Keiji for being so reckless; his actions got him killed. But another part of her felt sorrowful. She could never see him or touch him again; talk about nothing in particular as the night passed; cherish the feel of his skin on hers. Kasumi let a long, trembling breath abscond her lips. She knew one thing: nothing was going to stop her, not even if the gods came down from the sky, from finding out who killed Keiji.

She would kill him, just like he had done to her lover.

And she already knew how to do it.

The thief only needed to wait.


	2. Chance Meetings are Opportunities

Chapter One: Chance Meetings are Opportunities

Author's Note: Thanks to JaliceAZ for beta reading.

"_Fate brings you together, but it is still up to you to make it happen. We may meet someone by chance, but keeping that someone is still a choice."—Abhishek Tiwari _

"Are you sure this is the real thing?"

Jim arched his eyebrow at the volus client. He smiled at him, keeping his cheerful façade as best as he could. "Trust me, sir," he said. "This is the real deal—the best that Earth has to offer." The former Alliance agent crossed one of his legs atop the other and leaned back into the lounge chair the volus kept in his miniature office. He felt like a giant; everything was too small for the human. However, the discomfort was a small price to pay; the outcome was completely beneficial to Jim—financially speaking, of course.

The volus, Ditzu Kan, inhaled as he spoke. "And how did you find it?" he asked as he took in another breath. Ditzu Kan was, for all intents and purposes, one of the best attorneys on the Presidium—and one of the most competent. That he was looking for contraband didn't surprise Jim, of course; many people—aliens included—felt the need to do the opposite of what they preached. "Smuggling things through customs is difficult," Kan stated as he twirled the small, transparent bag between his fingers. "It should be much more of a challenge, bringing it from your own homeworld."

He had expected a statement like this. "Neither C-Sec or Alliance Customs are as observant as they should be," Jim lied, but he was so used to lying that, even if the sky was blue, he could convince a person that it was black. It was a skill necessary for his occupation, one that he exploited all too well. The former Alliance agent cleared his throat, returning to the task at-hand. "As I was saying, this is the best that Earth has to offer—and it is right at your fingertips for just six hundred credits."

Ditzu Kan looked at Jim; his eyes wide behind his envirosuit. "I will give you four hundred. No more," said the volus, tossing the small bag on his desk.

For such economical and financial prowess the volus claimed they possessed, they really to do their research when they went to buy something, especially on the "black market." Jim felt an inner need to smirk at his accomplishment. He didn't quite know _why, _but rumours around the gyp community were that a highly-praised attorney—that worked at the Citadel Embassies—was looking to buy human drugs, cocaine, specifically. A bit of flour mixed with sugar, and the difference was virtually unnoticeable for the alien.

"Six hundred or nothing," stated the agent-turned-criminal, trying to convince the volus to leave the price as it was. Ditzu Kan clasped his hands atop his desk and narrowed his eyes at Jim, waiting for him to say something. He leaned forward enthusiastically. "This is the best of the best that you can get on the Citadel," Jim started, attempting to persuade the attorney. "You're lucky I'm only charging six hundred—getting this from Earth was hard, plus I have to pay the guy that got it for me." He arched his eyebrow, then shrugged as he said, "If you don't get it now… well, you're not the only one that's on my waiting list, Kan."

Ditzu Kan muttered some things under his breath as he reached into one of his suit's pockets. The criminal smirked inwardly. This was a good deal—all it took for him to get the materials was a trip to the grocery store and a releasable storage bag to earn six hundred credits. Selling drugs wasn't his typical modus operandi, but with everything that had been going on—geth attacks on human colonies—it was a much-needed change of pace, since there wasn't much to do for a thief while colonies were being attacked by sentient machines.

It drove him crazy, really. The attack of Eden Prime was the most random thing that had happened in human history; nobody could've predicted it. Worst thing was, the ambassador of his race had pressed charges against a Spectre—a _turian_ Spectre named Saren, which didn't particularly help, considering the Council agent's race. Jim knew how Spectres were supposed to operate—outside the law, everything they laid their hands on was classified—because it was, in its own way, similar to the ways he operated back in the Alliance Intelligence Agency.

Had the famed Alliance Intelligence Agency been incompetent in their line of work; gathering information to prevent an attack? Were they finally tied down by all the rules and regulations the Agency possessed?

Jim didn't quite realise how much he loved the hectic lifestyle that his former job brought him; the happiness of subconsciously having everything he'd longed to have as a child—an active life that brought him adventure, diversity, and a chance to see everything that the galaxy had to offer—coursing through his body from his hips, to his fingertips.

Even if he actually _liked_ the "profession" he had been doing for the past three years, he would do anything to acquire his former position within the Agency—even if it meant reporting to inter-agency politicians with the title of an agent again.

A soft clink brought him back from his thoughts. He looked up into the desk, where two credit chits lay. Reaching forward, he took them and stashed them in his suit's pocket; always looking presentable was a mantra that had found its way to Jim's mind and never went away. "Pleasure doing business with you, Ditzu Kan," said the criminal as he stood up and straightened his suit, basically marching out of the volus's office. He heard a muffled reply, but he didn't really pay it much attention, for he had already left the alien's office already.

He was making his way down a surprisingly empty corridor. It was one of the plainest ones he'd seen on the Embassy; it was usually much more decorated, much more alive. Jim chuckled to himself as he shook his head. The corridor actually reminded him of his life—just like the corridor, he had a long way until he reached the end, but every random painting he found only reminded him of the choices he'd made for the better; scarce, near non-existent.

Jim wasn't a fatalistic man. He believed that a person should take control of their life, and that things happened because a person _caused _it, not because it was written. But he sometimes wondered if everything that had happened to him was because a committee of directors had agreed—for once—to mess up his life, even if he got them what they were looking for. If they wanted things to get done, they only had to call an Agent James Clarke, because he would do it. But no, when they asked for something but "didn't agree" with the agent's methods, they would just throw him off the Agency—no questions asked, and certainly no chance to answer.

No wonder they were losing their edge. The Agency needed to give their agents more freedom.

As he reached the end of the corridor, he could see a bright blue light being emitted. It was the artificial sky of the Presidium the one that almost blinded him. Jim looked down the massive set of stairs, expecting to find the usual asari clerk that filled the spot, but instead he found a turian typing away on the console. It was a shame, really. He was trying to see if the asari would be interested in going to the Citadel's Annual Biotiball Tournament—humans were playing against asari—since she had expressed an interest in the sport, albeit reluctantly. It was hard to get something out of the woman other than "if you have any questions, please consult Avina."

He started to go down the massive staircase, but a few muffled sounds that came from an odd pair of aliens catched his attention.

. . .

"I told you that coming here was a bad idea!" hissed Keenah'Breizh vas Honorata, the last surviving crew member of the quarian vessel. For the hundredth time in a day, Tali sighed again as she rounded the corner of the Citadel Embassy. Seeing so much beautifully decorated space—and so unused—was a new thing for Tali, an alien one at best. It was surprising to see how the races here on the Citadel took for granted the liberties they had.

Half of a ship's crew could live here in the Presidium and barely even see each other!

She felt Keenah grab her arm and stop her as she walked. "Keenah, we have to give this to the authorities," said the young pilgrim as quietly as she could; the groups of people that were idly chatting were turning their heads at the quarian pair. She did her best to gently free herself of Keenah's grip without drawing more attention. "We can't do anything with it in the Migrant Fleet; a human colony was attacked, and we have the data they need."

Keenah's eyes narrowed behind his royal blue mask. "What have the humans ever done for us?" asked the quarian. "Treat us like the rest of the galaxy or like scavengers, thieves, and held in the same respect as a krogan?" He shook his head. "You should take this to the fleet; see what can be done from there." The quarian pilot paused. "And besides," he added, "your Pilgrimage would be over with this data—you wouldn't need to be running from Saren's men and endangering _both_ of our lives."

The past couple of weeks hadn't been very easy on Tali'Zorah nar Rayya. Four weeks ago, she had been fixing a creaky leak back in her home-ship, the Rayya_._ Now, after going through battles in an uncharted world and on Illium, she was in the Presidium—a place that she had only dreamed of visiting prior to her Pilgrimage. The circumstances, however, weren't pretty. She was looking for protection from Saren's men, for she had data that incriminated in regards to the attack of the human colony, Eden Prime. In exchange, she was willing to give the data to the proper authorities; it was the right thing to do after the humans had lost their lives—home, family, children—in a geth attack.

She started to walk forward, feeling the clink of her metal boots as they made contact against the ground. Keenah was walking beside her in a robust manner. She knew that he wasn't very keen on her decision to give the data to the proper authorities. But she knew better than that. What would the Migrant Fleet do if they had data that incriminated a Council Spectre? Sure, it gave them an edge, but it also put the fleet in danger—and that was a quarian's worst nightmare. It was their home, their place of solace. Saren was a capable man, and Council Spectre. He had the resources and intelligence to attack the largest fleet in the galaxy—and it wasn't as if the Council would do anything to stop the man. If that ever happened … Tali couldn't even imagine the consequences it would have on the quarian race.

Behind her mask, she licked her lips as she spoke. "Keenah, we can't just stay with it," she repeated as she fiercely walked towards the clerk. It was a turian. He had dark plates, almost brown, and white facial paint that contrasted against his plates. He was typing on his console, not even bothered to see that there were two people—no, two _quarians—_standing in front of him.

"Excuse me?" Tali called as she rested her hands atop the metal desk. They instinctively came together and started rubbing against each other, a habit that Tali had picked up easily, but had a hard time getting over. The turian clerk held up his talon at her as he finished typing. When he did, he swivelled his chair to face the pair.

"Identification," he stated; his tone as cold as his eyes. He had a bored expression on his face, as if he really didn't like his job.

Tali frowned. "We don't—" she stopped herself, remembering the data she held at her possession. "We need to speak with the Council."

The clerk laughed loudly as he leaned back in his chair. "The Council?" he asked in-between laughs. Her nostrils flared; this _bosh'tet _of a turian didn't know what was at stake here. "What are you going to tell them? That you want a planet for you to drop your refuse?" He stopped dramatically, raising one of his eyebrow plates. "Get lost, suit-rat. We don't want your kind here."

Tali did her best to ignore the clerk's insult to her people, but she felt an unfamiliar heat slowly grow on her chest. "We have data that's important to the humans!" she pleaded, feeling tingles running up and down her spine. "Evidence that a Spectre attacked a human colony. He's trying to kill us—please, we _have _to speak with the Council!"

"A Spectre?" asked the clerk, obviously not believing what she had said. He waved his hand dismissively at the quarians. "Get out of here, quarian. If you don't, I'll call C-Sec and have you tossed off the station."

The young pilgrim sighed in defeat as she stepped away from the desk. Keenah stood a couple of metres behind her, waiting for her to walk away. With a sharp inhale, she nodded to the quarian pilot and walked towards him.

Even if the authorities wouldn't listen, she would find a way to get this data to where it belonged; to where it could be of use to the humans.

All she actually had left to hope for was that they wouldn't get killed along the way.

. . .

With a newly-found determination, Jim went down the stairs. He didn't quite know if he had heard the quarians—or _quarian, _as the one with the blue decorations never spoke—correctly, but he heard that they had evidence of the Eden Prime attack. It bothered him that the clerk didn't give them a chance; data like this was vital to humanity, and if a person of such a simple position denied at least some kind of help, then the consequences would be horrendous not just to the human race, but every race that could be involved.

He passed by the turian clerk and searched the almost non-existent crowd for the two quarians. They weren't really hard to spot; they were making their way out of the Embassy, reaching towards the elevator that led to the Upper Wards. Jim did what he was trained to do—he trailed them, tried to see what they were up to. The quarians walked briskly and looking at their surroundings very often, as if they were on the run. Then again, the quarian with the violet veil—the one that spoke with the turian clerk—had said to him that they were on the run from Saren's men.

Ah, the wonders of eavesdropping had never failed Jim, and he doubted that they ever would. It was a skill that he had picked up during training, back when he started as an intern with the Agency. In this moment, he only had one thing in mind: if what the quarian said was true—if she really had data that incriminated a Council Spectre—it was his chance to get back what was lost: his position with the Agency.

Of course, it would be hard trying to convince the people of the Agency to welcome him among their ranks, but he was sure that with the data the quarians had in their possession, they would at least give him a chance.

And besides, from what he heard, the quarians were looking for protection in exchange for the evidence. It was an outcome that would benefit both parties; Jim would get his job, and the quarians would get the protection that they wanted.

The tricky part would be getting the quarians to agree; to trust Jim.

From a distance, he watched the quarians. This part of the Presidium was a bit tricky to blend in on; there weren't many groups of people, and it was bright, so they could see him in plain sight. However, they were facing away from Jim as they waited for the elevator to arrive. High in the sky, there was a wide bridge—one that could very easily have a good vantage point of the quarians, and subsequently, Jim's location on the Presidium. His eyes narrowed as he saw an all-too familiar sight—the dark, slick muzzle of a sniper rifle.

Jim acted on instinct.

With a single sweep of his hand, his entire body gleamed with a light blue light—the light of biotics. In just enough time, the quarians were pushed out of the way; a sound of thunder echoed around the Presidium as the sniper fired. The quarians were armed, but they didn't see the sniper—they saw what was directly in front of them: Jim Clarke. Quickly, the door to the elevator opened, and Jim did what was the most idiotic—yet, ironically, safest—thing to do.

Even among humans, Jim was a tall guy. He used this to his advantage as he stormed forward as fast as he could, tackling the quarians into the elevator. They landed with a loud _thud, _and Jim felt as if his heart had found its way out of his body. His chest ached as he landed on it, and his hands were wrapped against both quarians. With a soft hiss, the elevator doors closed and started its descent, but it sounded like a thunderstorm had been on the Presidium.

He untangled his hands from the quarians and pushed himself into a plank position, standing up and straightening his suit. With inhuman speed, the quarians were up and aiming their weapons at Jim—a simple, deadly pistol was held by the male, while the female had more of a nerve; she was aiming at him with a shotgun.

A quarian was aiming at Jim—with a _shotgun_.

The former agent held up his hands in a surrendering gesture, exchanging glances between the male and the female. Like most quarians, they weren't very tall, and their males weren't very big on muscle mass, either. However, they were faster than a human, not stronger. He could think of various scenarios; of the many ways he could disarm them and use the situation to his advantage, but that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted them to have the upper-hand, think they had the advantage.

"What the hell were you thinking?" hissed the quarian male as he gripped his weapon tighter with his three-fingered hand. "You could've broken our visor; _killed _us!"

Jim kept his hands up in the air. "My apologies," said the human. His eyes travelled to the female's body, looking at her shield generator. Unexpectedly, they weren't on. "Your shields aren't on," he pointed, nodding towards the generator. "If I hadn't pushed you out of the way, you'd be dead now—and not from a biotic throw."

With his hands still up, he slowly turned around to face the elevator's controls. When he hit the stop button, the elevator stopped its descent into the Upper Wards. A few clicking sounds were heard; no doubt it came from the quarian pair's weapon. "I don't know who you are," Jim started. "And frankly, I don't care, but I can help you—you have data important for the Alliance, yes?"

The female quarian's grip on her shotgun tightened, and that was something that Jim noticed. Body language was a topic that he had received extensive training for, as part of the job. She was in a defensive position—one foot in front of the other, ready to take on any attack—and Jim could understand why; he'd do the same in their positions. However, the two glowing dots behind her mask narrowed as if she were in thought.

"How so?" she asked.

Jim couldn't help but notice traces of naiveté in her voice, of youthful ignorance. She sounded young, and—from what he could tell—looked young, agile. One of her suit's arms was made out of refined metals; tubes hanged limply from it. The suit was very snug against her body. Aside from the massive, purple veil that covered her helmet and went from her chest to her thighs, the suit was decorated with soft geometrical figures that were so small that Jim couldn't really see the entire figures. He looked down at her boot, where a combat knife was neatly holstered.

He answered in an almost comforting voice, "Because I _know _how the Alliance operates. Forget about the Council. They're not the ones that need the help right now—it's humanity. And you have the answer to humanity's questions. I don't know how you found… whatever it is you found, but it's vital to the security of my people."

"And how do we know that you're not playing with us? That you're not one of Saren's men?"

The question came from the quarian that stood before the female; still aiming his weapon at Jim. It was funny, really. Even in space, and with highly-sophisticated translators, there was always someone that rolled their "R's". It reminded Jim of the time he spent studying, back when he was not a part of the Agency, in Ukraine.

Jim looked up at the elevator's ceiling, searching for the emergency exit shaft. He knew that if they were on the run—and that there was a _sniper_ on the Presidium—there were more men out there waiting for the quarians, and an elevator exit was the perfect place for an ambush. The elevator was stopped, but it was only a matter of time until someone called it again. "Trust me," said Jim as he looked at the quarian male. "If I was 'playing with you,' as you put it, we wouldn't be here; you would be a cadaver in the Presidium. As for Saren… well, I know that no answer that I'll give to you will be good enough, so you just have to trust me when I say that I don't work for Saren—and that you'd be dead and I would be on my way to a mid-afternoon snack." He frowned. "In fact, I'm self-employed," added the former Alliance agent.

Tali looked at the human in front of her. He basically came out of nowhere and pushed her and Keenah into the elevator, out of the goodness of his heart? No, it couldn't be possible. People on the Citadel—or anywhere in particular—weren't very fond of quarians; he had to want something if he was offering his help, and data like this was worth a lot of credits. Maybe he wanted credits? Maybe he was going to kill them when he had the chance? She glanced at her surroundings. No, at least not right now; he had two weapons aimed at him, and there was no chance of him surviving a point-blank shot.

But then again, what if he wasn't working for anybody, as he said? What if he was helping them to benefit his people? People died during the geth attack. Maybe he had family there and was looking into the whole situation? It wasn't possible to know—at least not at the moment—but Tali knew one thing: they had to get out of the elevator.

She lowered her weapon and holstered it. "I want to help my people," said the human. He sounded genuine, and the way he looked at her told her that he was telling the truth… or so she thought. Tali didn't have many interactions with humans, since they were the newest race to join the galactic community, but she remembered what the instructors had said in the Migrant Fleet about the humans. Physically, they were taller and of bigger frame than most of her species, and this man wasn't different.

The human easily towered over her and Keenah; she reached his chin. He was also of a broader frame than a typical quarian, but even if they shared similarities—endoskeleton, tear ducts, lips, teeth—humans were alien to her. His facial features resembled a quarian's, but the alien thing about him was the eyes and the white and brown hair that covered his face.

His eyes were of an icy blue pigment that reminded her of Keenah's veil. His skin colour resembled the Rayya'sbulkheads—light, but with obvious undertones. The human's hair reached just beyond to cover the nape of his neck, and she couldn't really understand why, but he had hair that covered his face—his jaw, his chin, and his upper lip. It was dark, so it contrasted heavily against the colour of his eyes.

"You'll pardon me for not taking you at your word, human," said Keenah; his ever-evident grumpy tone noticeable. "We don't even know who you are; how are we supposed to trust you?"

The human arched his eyebrow at Keenah. "I'm trying to help my people," replied the man, and then shrugged. "But you're right—you're within your rights to know." He put his hand on his chest as he said, "I'm Jim. James Clarke if you're into formalities, really." The man—Jim…or James—arched his eyebrow. "Now, who're you?" he asked as he leaned back and looked at the ceiling again. Tali followed the trail of his eyes; it led to the emergency exit.

She reached behind her and put her hand on the muzzle of Keenah's weapon, lowering it. The quarian pilot muttered something that she couldn't pick up, and his eyes met hers; the distrust he felt for _anyone_ right now was evident, but Keenah was a short-tempered man, and she had noticed that he was a firm believer of the way that many people thought of humans—and their reputation—in the flotilla.

The instructors back in the Rayya taught Tali and many other twenty-one-year-olds—the legal quarian age, pilgrims-to-be—basic things but complicated concepts: combat training, advanced systems engineering, physics, mathematics, and anything that was of importance for a quarian pilgrim. Among those subjects was interspecies biology and culture. Every race in the galaxy had its stereotype—asari were extremely promiscuous, batarians were terrorists, krogans were guns for hire, salarians were mad scientists, and so on. But the humans were the newest race to join the galactic community, and their reputation among the races was one of the most… original.

"Headstrong," "self-centred," and "relentless" were a few of the words that the instructors used to describe humans. It was what could be seen about them; they were already fighting for a seat on the Council, had a lot of areas of the Traverse colonised, and a relatively large portion of the galaxy belonged to them—all in less than thirty years. Maybe it was their traits what made them so successful; their different ways of thinking, their diversity.

"This is your Pilgrimage, Tali," said Keenah from behind her, breaking the young pilgrim from her thoughts. "If you want to trust this human, so be it. But don't expect _me_ to do so while being blind."

She ignored Keenah as she looked at the man. His eyes were expressionless; emotionless as he looked at her. It was as if he would be willing to do whatever it took to get them to trust him. Maybe he was really doing it to help his people. Or maybe he was just expressing the stereotypical human relentlessness. She figured that, if he did _technically_ save her and Keenah's life, trusting him would be a chance to repay him for his deeds.

"I'm Tali. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya_," _said the pilgrim, earning a bright smile from Jim.

He clapped his hands together. "Well, first thing's first—we should go somewhere safe." Again, he looked up into the emergency exit, and then back at her. "Getting down at the next stop would be idiotic; the Presidium is one of the best-secured places in the Citadel, and there was a sniper there, just imagine how the Wards must be." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pair of dark gloves. "Besides, it's predictable," added the human. Behind her mask, Tali frowned. _Why does he have gloves? He's dressed so… formally. Why would he carry those with him? _Tali asked herself, trying to figure out the man.

She watched as he slipped them on. "I know a path down the elevator shafts; it leads to the Upper Wards. I've got a place in the Tayseri Ward, if you're interested. It's possibly the safest place on the Citadel right now." He eyed the handle that opened the emergency exit and exchanged glances between Tali and the other quarian. "Think you can reach that if I give you a lift?" Jim asked, looking at Keenah.

"You're not seriously considering going in through the shafts," Keenah said as he crossed his arms; his tone defiant, as he was challenging Jim.

He arched his eyebrow. "Do you prefer to be pinned down by mercs—signing your death sentence—while the people just stand and watch?" Keenah didn't reply, but his gleaming eyes narrowed. He grumbled as he stepped towards the human, who created a support for the quarian's feet with his hands. Almost effortlessly, Jim pushed him up until Keenah could grab the handle of the emergency door; he pulled it and threw it on the floor. It landed next to Tali with a loud clanking noise.

Keenah grabbed the edge of the new opening of the elevator and pulled himself up. When he reached the top, he extended his hands down to give support to the next person.

"_Presidium elevator, are you stuck? Do you need support?" _came in a voice from the elevator's microphone, stopping the snappy elevator music.

"No, we're fine," Jim answered quickly, motioning Tali to follow the same procedure that Keenah had. She felt herself being lifted up by Jim, and when she reached Keenah, he pulled her up. She looked down at the almost-empty elevator to see the human jumping towards the edge of the exit. Jim grabbed on to the metal edge and pulled himself up, forcing Tali to step out of the way to give him more access. "Okay," he started as he stood up. "The Citadel's elevator shafts are interconnected with the homeless people's homes—the so-called "duct rats"—so don't fret if you see people around here. If you follow me, I'll lead you to the closest exit to my place." He looked at them, nodding towards the path.

. . .

At first, when Kasumi had started her profession as a thief, she left a rose in place of everything she stole. It was her way of leaving her mark on people; of knowing that Kasumi Goto was the one that stole the piece—or sometimes, planted it. When Keiji and she met, he managed to convince her not to keep practising that act, because it was a way of tagging herself with red paint in a world that was black and white.

It was one of the many things that Keiji had taught her. She remembered the nights that they would just sit down and talk about nothing in particular; about what Kasumi longed to steal, about his time in the Alliance Intelligence Agency.

Often were the times when Keiji spoke to her about his former partner. He said that he was a defiant man, one who took many gambles to find solid intelligence for the Alliance. There were times when it paid off, and times when it went down the drain very fast—and that's what happened to him; he was discharged from the Agency, but Keiji never told her the specifics.

And never did Jim Clarke speak of his time in the Alliance; Kasumi only knew because Keiji had told her.

She remembered that she worked with Jim in a heist on Beckenstein, where many of the Citadel's entrepreneurs lived and housed their headquarters. The place was heaven for a thief of Jim's likes—"keep your hands clean but your weapon out of safe mode" was a phrase that the man had told her while they were infiltrating the target's vault; Beckenstein was just like Illium, which was no different than Omega.

Kasumi walked around his closet in circles, running her gloved hand along the large trail of clothing—which were mostly suits. The man was sophisticated—a trait that wasn't uncommon in their line of work—and paranoid. She had to admit that not many people bothered having such a complex security system in their apartment, and so many alarms. But the best thief in the business wasn't about to let that stop her from getting inside.

A soft, quiet chuckle escaped her lips as she carefully eyed his collection of cufflinks. She was trying to distract herself from Keiji; trying to create an invisible line that separated her from an emotional oblivion. It was verging on impossible, for the more she tried to avoid it, the closer it got to her. She shook her head in an attempt to free her mind of Keiji—her lover, her demise. She was attempting to exile him from her mind; to find a way to avoid thinking of the only person that had ever meant that much to her.

She left the closet and walked towards the bedroom, then walked towards the desk's seat, cradling her head in her hands. Everything had happened so quickly; _Keiji _had been taken away from her so quickly. The thief within her could imagine her life without him as her partner, but to the woman within Kasumi, a life without Keiji was a night without a moon—a galaxy without stars, a bird without wings.

Kasumi gasped for air; the familiar knot in her throat coming back to life again. The thief shook her head, this time succeeding in stopping the tears from falling. She closed her eyes as she took in a few deep breaths, as if she were meditating. Thoughts were still running through her head, but with concentration, she tried to stop them.

When she felt strong enough, she stood up and left the bedroom, entering the apartment's main corridor. It was home to four doors, and the entire place reflected a big part of the man that occupied this home—it had dark colours; a nostalgic, emotional appearance. Off in the distance, Kasumi could see the silhouette of a piano. Paintings of various renowned artists decorated the walls, and _real_, hard-cover books were neatly organised on a bookshelf. The latter was one that Kasumi couldn't look at.

Books reminded her of Keiji. He used to bring her old, classical romance novels that he stole while on contracts. Some of them were more valuable than the object he was hired to steal.

Instead, she turned her direction elsewhere, to where the living area was. As she indulged herself deeper and deeper into his apartment, she saw that he didn't really have many electronic gadgets—just a vid screen that rested about two metres next to a bar. It was filled with alcoholic beverages. Kasumi turned towards the coffee table; her attention on a half-empty bottle of wine that didn't have the cork on. She took it in her hands, reading the label. It was a century-old asari wine—one that was very valuable. Kasumi couldn't really pronounce the alien word; High Thessian sounded like an alien mix between German and French, but she knew that Jim had to pay a lot for this—_if_ he paid.

A slick, black device caught her attention. It was resting neatly next to the wine glass, as if begging to be used—a cigarette, one of mankind's worst enemies, yet the key to happiness to the men and women who fell under its spell.

Kasumi remembered how Keiji told her that Jim was devastated when he'd been discharged. She didn't really know to what extent he meant, but she knew that the men that worked in the intelligence sector were men that worked—lived—under a false life. The only life that he could live freely, stripped away in a moment's notice…

He would be lost.

Alone, unable to contact anyone from his former life; his real self. He would endanger the people he loved, just like Kasumi would if she would try to contact her family back on Earth.

Seeing the way that Jim—former enforcer of the law, turned criminal—lived gave Kasumi a new perception of life in the galaxy; of how Keiji sometimes evaded the questions of his past that she often posed. She looked around at her surroundings; the warm, dark apartment was covered in memories and secrets of the man that inhabited it.

Kasumi heard the muffled sounds of faint voices in the back of the main door. She immediately recognised the low, joyous voice that belonged to Jim Clarke. Almost as if she was born with the ability, she activated her omni-tool; her tactical cloak came to life at a moment's notice.

She didn't have to wait so long. With his assistance, she would avenge Keiji.


	3. The Minds of Criminals

Treachery of a Noble Heart

Chapter Two: The Minds of Criminals

**A/N:** Well, second chapter's done. Please leave some reviews; it's like… like gasoline to a car—it keeps it rolling. Anyways, thanks to JaliceAZ for beta-reading. I really don't want to re-tell the Mass Effect story, but if you guys don't remember how Tali's Pilgrimage started (Homeworlds: #2), then I offer something to refresh your mind in the paragraphs below.

Enjoy, and don't forget to review!

—AirPowerST

"_So the difference between a criminal and a hero is the _order_ in which their vile crimes are committed. And __justice comes with a sell-by date. In that case, you'd better hurry. You wouldn't want your heroism to spoil." –-Lois McMaster Bujold, Komarr_

Jim listened intently to the buzzing sounds the sky-cars left behind, watching in the distance at the slowly fading trails of light. He took another puff of his e-cig, feeling the warm menthol-flavoured vapour do a vortex in his mouth. Over his shoulder, he looked at the quarians through the near-transparent door of his apartment's balcony. They were seated with their hands at their sides; the bright lights on the mouthpiece of their masks brightening and dimming as Jim had seen it did as they spoke.

He had to be honest with himself. Not even he knew how he was going to pull off what he had in mind—how he was going to get back the _life_ he so carefully built. But he was certain that he was going to do it, even if the galaxy stopped spinning. The former agent exhaled as he turned his attention back to the Ward's vista that was sadly covered by an acrylic-like material, for security purposes feeling the smoke hit him in the face like a slap. He coughed as he turned off the awfully-addicting, dangerous-yet-necessary device, stashing it in his trouser's pocket. The key to his success was patiently waiting about ten metres of distance, but it was still so distant that he just didn't know where to begin.

A part of him felt as if he were an artist craving something to paint, but without an image in his mind; he couldn't throw random lines around, trying to make a sketch. He had to be clear and concise, for not only was he going to deal with a massively big intelligence agency, but the enemy the quarians faced was a Spectre—a Spectre with access to everything that happened throughout the galaxy, with unlimited resources, and with a never-ending list of contacts. He had resources, but they couldn't stand a chance against a Spectre, obviously. Sure, he could somehow trust the gyp community, but it was composed of men and women that spoke with bought tongues. His resources weren't exactly low; they were the opposite, in fact. But he couldn't go about wasting them if he didn't have a solid income… well, not exactly an "income," but if he didn't get contracts, then he was not paid. Sure, he had contacts he could turn to if he needed assistance, but the vast majority was just like the gyp community: unreliable and not worth the risk. Not for the price, anyway.

At least he wasn't completely lost in the abyss. He knew the first person that needed to be out of the way was the man that attacked the quarians—and therefore, him—in the Presidium. A "Commander Jacobus," as Tali had told him through the ducts. It was just as he expected it to be: cramped, sweaty, and with odd smells. The quarians were lucky; they didn't have to take showers or worry that much about the stains on their suits—the complete opposite of Jim's case. Now, after a fresh shower and dressed in khakis and a white shirt, Jim wished that his sorrows would've been washed away as well; that it would give him the inspiration he needed to break the box and get to work with the quarians.

If only it were that easy…

. . .

Kasumi watched Jim sigh as he leaned forward, resting his forearms against the rail. Her brows came together as she tilted her head. Jim looked different. He'd changed; he looked more… passive, but at the same time, distressed—as if he had a thousand things running about in his mind. It was odd, since Jim usually had a buoyant attitude. It was just another mask, she was certain.

Again, he turned his head to look through the door's window, where the quarians were sitting, no doubt. The thief was in a blind spot, for she could not see the quarians or what they were doing from their position. When he turned his head to face the Ward, she got a glimpse of his eyes.

Being a thief, Kasumi had to be a master in the art of observation—and even if he was good, he wasn't perfect. He had the physical bane and giveaway of every human's suffering: dark circles under his eyes. On his chin, he had whitening bristles, and his hair was too long for him to say that he'd been going to the barber often. Behind his icy blue orbs, Kasumi saw the same thing she had observed in his apartment; she saw the sorrow he held in his eyes, just begging to escape.

She shook her head to herself as she watched him, who was looking down at his intertwined hands; thumbs playing together. Kasumi didn't really expect—him to show up with company, and that delayed her plans. But she hoped that Jim would put whatever it was he had aside to aid his fallen partner.

The thief knew all the facts she could gather about him, what Keiji had told her about the man that stood a couple of metres in front of her. However, she didn't know how to broach the subject, for she was certain that he would act as if his cover had been blown; he would disappear, and considering that he was an expert in that area, it was not what Kasumi needed now. Would it be best for her to be blunt? What if she skirted around the subject? Was there a chance for her to lull him into submission, into exposure?

No, the latter was far too unlikely. She was going to speak with one of the most highly-trained agents—or, at least _former_ agent—of the Alliance Intelligence Agency. He was a master at keeping secrets, and living every life that wasn't his own; she wasn't going to be able to lure him so that he told her what she wanted to hear, for it was almost impossible.

She decided that she was going to pull it down her sleeve and approach him, just be honest and try to charm her way out of any situation that might've been bloody. The thief walked towards him and mirrored his position, standing about one and a half metres away from him; she kept a distance for precaution. Taking a silent breath, she slowly reached towards a concealed button in the palm of her hand, the button that de-activated or activated her cloak when she didn't want to use her omni-tool. Her finger hovered over the button, hesitating. But it only took her a mental image of Keiji to press it.

A soft creaking sound greeted Kasumi's ears as she deactivated her cloak. His senses reacted quickly—within seconds, he had turned to face her with a biotic barrier raised, ready to resist any attack. He lunged forward, attacking her almost flawlessly, but she was shorter than him, and she used it to her advantage. Swiftly—and quietly—she rolled to the side, evading his attack. The thief held her hands up in a surrendering position, looking at Jim, who was staring at her with his barrier raised.

He frowned, verifying if she was a threat, no doubt. A couple of seconds later, his barrier dropped as he stepped back. "I guess I need new locks," commented the criminal as he eyed Kasumi carefully, looking over to the door. He was glad that the sky-car's noise—the Citadel's natural sounds—and the apartment's walls blocked the majority of the noise. "But that wouldn't have stopped you from getting in, right?"

Kasumi shook her head, knowing that he spoke the truth. "No," she replied as she walked towards the opposite side, away from the door.

"Hmph," he grunted as he leaned back and crossed his arms, frowning. "The last time you were here, you had a heist you wanted to do." He tilted his head towards Kasumi. "I'll let you know—I'm tempted, but not interested."

"It's not what I wanted to talk to you about," said the master thief, her tone quieter than usual. "I have a… proposition." She decided to be blunt; to get over the step, and see if he accepted or not. The thief had a paradox of emotions—she wanted to have answers about Keiji's death, but she didn't want to speak of him, for the more she thought of him, the more overwhelmed she would feel. She needed to be stoic; she needed to be the thief, not the woman.

Again, he arched his eyebrow, looking at her intently. "Does it involve illicit activities?" he asked rhetorically, almost ironically. "Never mind, I already told you that I'm not interested."

She decided that it was best to not skirt around the subject anymore. "What do you know of Abraham Rumoi?"

To her surprise, he didn't attack. Instead, he looked at her with a frown, almost as if he was contemplating something. "Where'd you hear that name?" he asked; his tone stoic as his eyes bored into hers. It was so unemotional—so detached of every emotion—that it was almost scary. He neither confirmed nor denied Kasumi's question.

She took a breath, knowing that talking about Keiji would be difficult for her. He never really spoke much about his career in the Agency, only that his alias was Abraham Rumoi. He had only shared some of his adventures, and why he had been prosecuted by the Alliance. Slowly, the air around the balcony felt a as if it didn't exist, forcing her to take another breath. Jim merely arched an eyebrow at her, silently asking her to continue. "He… Keiji Okuda," she breathed. "He was my partner."

Jim grunted in reply as he turned to face the Ward. "Looks like every discharged agent ends up with a fake name and with a criminal career," he commented with a frown. "It's the gift that the Alliance leaves us with—the knowledge of how to do everything illegally. How is he? Did he finally manage to learn trade tongue, since he was failing miserably the last time I checked?"

Kasumi chuckled at the last question, knowing that Keiji often stayed up late trying to learn the alphabet, but with little success. "No," she answered, but then frowned; the hood darkening her features. The former query was going to be difficult to answer, for she didn't know if she was going to either answer it, or run away. She sighed in an attempt to mask her exhale, but it came out ragged. "He…" she trailed off, swallowing; preparing herself to talk about her lover. "He found some sensitive information," Kasumi started, quietly. His eyebrow arched even more; his face expressed curiosity. "Keiji made himself infamous. The information he had… got him killed," she revealed quietly, and she noticed that she was no longer looking Jim in the eyes, but at the view of Ward behind him.

She shut her eyes, but quickly opened them to see Jim's reaction. He seemed unfazed; he was as stoic as he was before. He frowned as he licked his lips, looking at the tip of her hood. His eyes closed as the man shook his head, then he opened them, looking down. "That's a shame," he said quietly. "He was a good guy."

_Yes, he was, _Kasumi thought, then stepped forward. She felt a flare of determination spark in her heart. She stepped forward, careful to stay out of the sight of the quarians. "That's why I'm here." He looked up at her with a frown, expecting her to speak. "I need your help."

"As much as I'd like to help you," he started; his voice gentler, "And as much as I'd like to know what happened to Rumoi, I can't get involved in anything illegal." He turned to face the Ward. "Not now, anyway."

"How so?" Kasumi asked as she stepped forward. "You always tried to do things the illegal way. What changed?"

"You don't need to know."

For once in her life, the master thief didn't have a plan. A part of her told her to forget about Jim; to let that line of attack drop and continue her quest on her own. But she didn't know where to start, and if there was someone in the galaxy that could tell her what leads Keiji had been following in his career, something that might give her an idea on where to begin, it was the man that stood before her. She sighed. Maybe if she was persistent, she could get something out of him. "What are you doing?" she asked again, almost impulsively. She was desperate for answers, and she was going to get them one way or the other. "I can help you, just tell me what to do, and you tell me something—anything that might tell me who might've killed Keiji."

Jim rested one of his arms, his left arm, on the railing as his opposite hand reached towards his pocket. He pulled out an e-cig pack, taking out a dark, slick device. With a beep, the device turned on. He took a puff. "And you think that the work he did for our mutual, former employer was what got him killed?" he asked; the smoke slowly escaping his mouth.

"He said that he'd found data that was important to the Alliance." He peeked towards the door, checking on the quarians. Shortly after, he looked at her again. "It was data that could implicate the Alliance. He never told me what it was, but he did tell me that it was big."

His eyes seemed to shine not with curiosity, but with interest—just as a man's eyes would shine if someone told him that the new, top-of-the-line sky-car could be his in a snap. "You're willing to break the law, in the Citadel, where the turians rule C-Sec, just to get what I have in my head?" She gave him a sharp nod. Truth was: Kasumi was ready to do whatever it took to get her answers—and her revenge. "Hmph," he grunted.

. . .

Jim looked up at the ceiling pensively. Abraham's death was just as surprising as Eden Prime's attack. But he wasn't going to show his surprise—or his emotions—to the thief in front of him, even if she seemed trustworthy and desperate for his aid. But someone of her skills could prove useful in his quest. He nodded towards the door. "See those quarians over there?" Kasumi followed his trail and nodded. "They've got intelligence of the attack that happened on Eden Prime. This is strictly on a need-to-know basis, so I'll tell you this: it happened by a Spectre named Saren. If you get me who is in charge of the investigations in C-Sec, what his men are doing in the Citadel, and some of their strongholds, then I'll consider helping you."

"You basically want me to do the heavy lifting," she stated, making Jim shake his head. He tapped his head with his index finger.

"Not precisely," he defended. "But if you want what I know—what Abraham did in his career, the guys we took down—then you'll work for what I need." An idea occurred to him, making him smirk inwardly. "Otherwise, you're clear to go, but remember: now, you know who attacked Eden Prime, therefore, you now have a target on your back."

"Walls have ears, don't they?"

"That they do." He tapped his watch. "And that's why you should get going. I've got two quarians to handle." He arched an eyebrow at Kasumi. "Deal?" he asked as he extended his hand forward.

She grabbed it; her tiny little hand against his. "Consider it done," she said in her typical smug tone. With that, she disappeared. He opened the door to his apartment, letting it open a few more seconds for Kasumi to pass in. He wasn't surprised that she had managed to enter his apartment; she was a master thief, after all. But if she could do it, then somebody else—someone hostile—could do it. He had to change things, and change them as soon as possible.

Quietly, he approached the quarians, who were seated with their backs to him. "I already told you," began Keenah, "there is something wrong about him. Look at his eyes—he's looking at us as if we were opportunities, not people. Why can't he take us to his government if it were so important? In what line of work is he in? Just look at this place, Tali'Zorah. It must've taken thousands of credits to pack it; we can put an air conditioner inside our suits if we sell every item that is in this room."

Jim had to give him credit: the quarian was an excellent study. Tali was just naïve, too trusting; it was noticeable that she had never seen the galaxy. But Keenah paid attention to every detail, every quirk. He didn't know if he should be surprised or cautious when it came to him, for the quarian knew that he was up to something. He needed his cover safe, so he answered Keenah's questions as he put his hand on the backrest. "Typically, even with intelligence as high as you have, the bureaucrats like to keep you bogged down. Considering your race, they might keep you in for a while. No offense intended, of course. I've got nothing against quarians." He slid his hand across as he walked the length of the couch, appearing in front of them. He exchanged glances between Keenah and Tali. "And I'm a salesman; I sell ships at the dealer—both new and used."

Part of it was true; he had spent time working at the ship dealer when he first arrived in the Citadel. Even a couple of years later, he still had their crew roster and operating procedures up his sleeve, thanks to the wonders of hacking and tracing. Keenah's eyes narrowed; the two glowing dots behind his mask almost diminishing. "Say it was true, then. How do you know how the Alliance operates, as you said? Did you work for them?"

Instinctively, Jim's nostrils flared; his façade diminished for a millisecond before it came back. He hoped the quarian hadn't noticed. "I can't talk about that," he said, his tone colder than his eyes. It was the tone that he was taught to use when someone tried to pry into his personal life. "But I can tell you that I know how they work, how they move, and how they strike."

"So you worked for them?" Tali repeated, mimicking Keenah. She leaned forward and rested the palms of her hand on her kneecaps.

He ignored her question, deeming it answered. Instead, he paced in front of the quarians with his hands clasped behind his back. "First thing's first: we have to get rid of the guy that attacked us." He arched his eyebrow at Tali. "Tell me, where did you first see him?"

. . .

"That's a rather… unique adventure," Jim commented as he leaned back into his couch, crossing his leg atop the other. "But you still haven't told me what you have." He looked at Tali, who leaned forward, but was silently stopped by Keenah, who placed a hand on her wrist.

He cleared his throat. "Are you sure you want to do this, Tali'Zorah?" he asked, and Jim was sure that—if he had eyebrows—he was frowning under his blue-coloured mask. The criminal heard hints of hostility mixed with uncertainty in his voice, and he wasn't surprised to notice. Keenah had been, for the most part, rather uncooperative. He could sympathize, though; if the positions were reversed, Jim wouldn't trust himself, either.

He only wished the quarians knew one thing: that even if the galaxy stopped swirling, that data was getting to Alliance hands, where it belonged. And Jim would go back to his rightful place—either a desk at Langley, the Agency's headquarters in the United North American States, or in the field.

"I'm sure," Tali replied, bringing the former agent out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped to meet her omni-tool, where a couple of soundwave-like images appeared. But then again, he was seeing it backwards; he was facing Tali and Keenah. The quarian pilgrim's three fingers flew across the holographic interface with incredible speed, one that Jim hadn't seen before. He deduced two possibilities: either she was obsessed with instant messaging—something that he'd come to realise that was a universal curse—or she had worked for an extensive amount of time on the device. Though he was leaning towards the latter, since she had said that she worked in engineering, it wouldn't surprise him if it was a mix of both.

Three beeps chimed from Tali's omni-tool. She nodded, mostly for herself, Jim guessed. "_Eden Prime was a major victory!" _a male voice exclaimed; wicked pride looming in it. From the sub-harmonics in it, it was no doubt Saren. "_The beacon has brought us one step closer to finding the Conduit!" _

He frowned. "_And one step closer to the return of the Reapers,"_ said another voice, this one female. She showed such a lack of emotions—such a lack of _life_—in her voice that almost frightened him. It was the tone a person would use if they were not fully there; if they were not inside their mind, but lost in another world.

Seconds became minutes as Jim stared at the corner of his coffee table. He didn't know what these Reapers were, but he knew one thing: the Agency could not refuse this evidence. This was it—his ticket for success, right at the quarian's fingertips. "What are these Reapers? What do you know of them? Are they some sort of splinter group?" he asked as he took a deep breath, eyes locking with Tali's.

"No," she answered as her fingers travelled through the interface. "According to the memory core, the Reapers are a hyper-advanced machine race. They wiped out the Protheans, and then they vanished!" She brought the omni-tool to eye level. "According to what the geth believe, the Reapers come every fifty-thousand years to harvest organic life."

"Harvest?" Jim asked, scoffing. "That sounds as if we were expendable, pieces to be played with. Do you have anything else?"

She shook her head. "No. If I kept pushing for more information, the memory core would've fried."

"It's a defence mechanism," Keenah added, leaning forward.

He gave the quarian a thankful nod before he stood up and crossed his arms, turning to face the Ward. Slowly, almost carefully, he walked towards the window and gazed out of it. Off in the distance, he could only see his objective—his life. He saw the pointy tip of the Alliance Tower, whose seventh floor housed the headquarters for the Alliance Intelligence Agency.

He didn't know what to think of the Reapers. For the most part, they sounded far-fetched. Very far-fetched, in fact. But it didn't matter; the evidence was irrefutable and the Agency, no doubt, wouldn't turn it down just because of the man that held it… theoretically speaking. But now that he knew how they got here—how they left the flotilla, found an uncharted world, went to Illium, and stowed away in a turian freighter—he knew where to start.

He turned to face them again, walking with his head high towards them. "We need to deal with Commander Jacobus."

"And by "deal with him" I assume you mean killing him?" Keenah asked—no, _stated_—as he crossed his arms. "Forget it. We're supposed to leave the Citadel in one solar day, not do illicit activities. If C-Sec finds out—"

"C-Sec won't find out," Jim reassured, knowing a tad too much about the law enforcement's modus operandi. "They're too busy trying to deal with organised crime in the Wards to worry about two quarians with a deadline. Besides," he added, "it won't be anything _illegal _if we don't do anything; if we lead Jacobus to us."

Almost as if they were synched, Tali and Keenah's head tilted to the side in curiosity. "How so?" asked the quarian pilgrim.

Quietly chuckling at his mind, for it had an amazing plan in mind, Jim leaned back. "Commander Jacobus and his men are after you," he said. "No doubt they are scouting the Wards. You get them to some of the local landmarks—say, the incinerator, maybe the ducts—they can be… dealt with." He shrugged. It wasn't his goal to seem cold to the quarians, but he wanted them to know that he wasn't going to just sit around and wait for C-Sec to do something, even if it meant doing illicit activities. But that wasn't different for him, anyway.

"A ruse," Tali stated, leaning forward. "But how can we do this without getting ourselves killed?"

The criminal gave Tali a soft smile. "First thing we need to do is check in with some of my acquaintances in the Lower Wards…"

. . .

Rayna T'Les had always considered herself the best in her line of work. But this case—this nightmare—she was tasked with deciphering was giving her a headache. Slowly, she stood up from her desk, taking the datapad of deceit with her as she faced the landscape of Armali, which housed Armali's Investigative Bureau Headquarters.

Crossing her arms as she held the datapad in her hand, she gazed at the city. She wasn't surprised that it gave her some sort of solace, even if she still had every single detail from the wicked case she'd spent years to crack—with no success. The case officer closed her eyes, sighing, until she heard three soft knocks on her office door. "Enter," she said lazily, opening her eyes and letting them focus on a bright green light, emitted from an antenna-like building. Hard, confident footsteps started to get louder and louder until they stopped right behind her. "I'm surprised you agreed to this meeting," she said, already knowing who it was. "I'm sure that the Republic will greatly value your actions."

"This isn't a friendly chat," replied the human woman known as Miranda. "We had a deal; I'm sure it would be best if you stopped sightseeing and got to it."

Chuckling, Rayna twisted to face her. "You're a workaholic, aren't you?" she asked, then turned back to face her homeworld's beauty. From what she'd heard—and seen—the human woman had the looks, intelligence, and skill of an asari. _It's a shame she's human, _she thought, but quickly threw it aside for more pressing matters. Keeping her gaze on the green light, she clasped her hands behind her back. "I assume you have the files, then."

"No," replied the human operative, making the asari turn around abruptly. The human operative was dressed in an awfully tight suit that would've made an asari wonder how she got in there. But in her hands, she held a datapad. "Even for my organisation, the Alliance's files were too encrypted, almost impossible to break."

"Do you have anything that might give us an edge?"

"That's not for me to judge."

"You said that your organisation could get me the INTEL that I need in exchange for some of our tech. I'm not up for the trade if you don't have the complete files," Rayna said in the coldest voice she could muster, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Miranda arched her eyebrow. "I'd reconsider that, Officer T'Les," she said, crossing her arms as she held the datapad at her right side. "My organisation knows things of yours—the things that Mr. Clarke found, and that they got to the public, it could drastically impact the asari's reputation." The asari officer could hear the cold confidence that the woman used when she spoke. "And we can do it with just a press of a button."

"If you do that, you will alter Citadel politics to—"

"I am aware of the consequences, Officer T'Les," she interrupted. Rayna's nostrils flared. "And it would only further our cause. Now, where can we make the exchange?"

. . .

With speed and ease, Kasumi went down the stairs of the C-Sec Investigations Centre. Her eyes scanned the aisles as quickly as they could while she did her best to find—though she hoped that there weren't any—officers searching them. Relieved, she walked towards the centre of the room. Her senses were completely alert; she picked up a soft whistle. When she peeked into the centre, she found a human officer with his legs resting on the desk, his hands intertwined atop his stomach, and his head leaned back. _So much for working,_ she thought as she shook her head and moved towards him, always staying in cover, even if she had her cloak. Surprisingly, the archives were quite dark. _To conserve energy, no doubt, _she deduced as she hid back into cover, scanning for security cameras.

The thief spotted two, one north and one south. Leaning back to hide herself from the officer, she activated her omni-tool, dimming the light as soon as she was able. She navigated through her programs until she found the one she wanted—an EMP that froze five seconds of the image, replaying it so that it wouldn't draw attention. Aiming it at the two cameras, she activated it. When she got the confirmation, she got to work.

Walking behind the C-shaped desk, he slid her hand over the officer's jaw until she got a good grip. Startled, he swung his feet from the desk, but to avail; Kasumi had already grabbed her bicep, locking the hold. When she pulled, the officer's eyes fluttered, his head went limp.

Immediately, she got to work, knowing that she had little time in her hands before the officer woke up. Reaching towards the console, she did what Keiji taught her to do best: hack. She was surprised of C-Sec's low security levels; hacking into their databases was a piece of cake. She searched through their database until she found what she was looking for: the investigation on Saren. Wasting no time, she downloaded it onto her omni-tool, turning off the computer. She turned about to exit, and she left as quickly as she had entered.

. . .

Both Tali and Keenah were settled in Jim's guestroom. With that, and a plan in mind, he could only wait for Kasumi to finish her part of the deal. He stared at the ceiling, interlocking his hands atop his stomach. It was almost as if the ceiling was winning a staring contest against him, for he denied the basic necessity to blink.

When Kasumi told him that Rumoi had died, he did not want to show any emotions to her; it was not professional, and it was not necessary. But now, he was alone with his thoughts. Standing up, he walked towards his bedroom bureau, placing the palm of his hands on it and looking at its edge. He sighed as he ran his thumb over a scratch it had. He just couldn't fathom it. Even though Rumoi was a rather open man when they started to work together, he'd started to be much more… detached, just as any agent was supposed to be. He suffered the same fate Jim did, but he wasn't careless; he wouldn't just go about waving intelligence at people. What changed? What got him killed? More importantly, who killed him?

He was a tech operative, one of the best that Jim had seen in his career. Nobody knew how to move around the tech business better than him, and Jim was certain that he had unmatched skills on a computer. Was it the field outside of the Alliance that changed him? Was it that what got him killed?

The criminal sighed as he opened a drawer, pulling out a box that contained only memories of the past—a box that was designed to teach trade tongue to whomever wanted to learn.

The box held what Abraham Rumoi had tried to learn for years.


	4. Revelations

Chapter Three: Revelations

**Author's Note: As always, thanks a lot to JaliceAZ for beta-ing my story. Enjoy, and sorry for the late update! Don't forget to review! **

**-AirpowerST**

"_Exile is a dream of glorious return. Exile is a vision of revolution: of Elba, not St. Helena. It is an endless paradox; looking forward while always looking back. The exile is a ball hurled right into the air." –Salman Rushdie_

For years, John Hamilton had worked in the AIA's Centre of Operations in the Citadel as nothing more than a low-level security guard, basically a nobody in the Agency. His superiors had always told him that he was lucky to even be a _part_ of the organisation, for he did not pass the Agency's initial assessment—colloquially known in the United North American States as "The Farm,"a term that was inherited from the Central Intelligence Agency, back when it still existed. His day consisted of creating identifications for the Agency's employers, the ones that worked seven stories above him, the "big guys," as the men and women that failed training called it. He earned just enough to make a living, but he still considered leaving his not-so-relevant position in the Agency for a job in a department store.

In an attempt to forget about his self-hatred, whenever John got off work, he found solace in one infamous establishment in the Lower Wards: Chora's Den, a place filled with every variety of scum the Citadel had to offer. The place had a stench that John couldn't quite pin-point, but they served good beer, and the view wasn't bad—not bad at all. Coming here almost on a regular basis, the aesthetically-acceptable physique he had when he first arrived on the Citadel was now gone, replaced by a drinker's gut. The smell he gave up most of the times—if not all the time—was just another giveaway of his attachment for the liquid courage the place provided.

But it gave him the key to forgetting about his life and living in a fantasy realm—the one _he _controlled.

He motioned for the bartender, an asari, to give him another beer. Checking his bank account through his omni-tool, he only had two hundred credits left, barely enough to survive until payday. _Just one more,_ he drunkenly reminded himself, lowering his arm as the orange glow disappeared. He pushed the empty bottle of beer aside as the bartender put a new one in front of him. Swiftly, he took a long, refreshing swig of his beer, cherishing the strong flavour that took away all of his memories.

His eyes stared boringly at a random bottle of alcohol, both of his hands gripping the bottom of the green-coloured bottle. Through his peripheral vision, he saw a human man, about six feet tall, approaching him. Lazily, he turned his head to face the man, who was ordering a drink. He was too well-dressed to be in a place such as Chora's Den; it made him stand out in the crowd, something that John would never do. With no facial hair covering his face, Hamilton knew one thing too clear: this was the type of man that everyone would envy.

With a drink in his hand, the man approached him.

Through blurred vision, the Agency's nobody tried to study him. He had icy blue eyes, so bright that they were capable of scaring someone. His nose looked too Greek, too straight—the complete opposite of John—and his chiselled jawline only improved things for the man. Waving the thoughts aside, he brought the beer to his lips and swallowed.

"You know, Chora's Den is a place reserved for the scum of the Citadel," the man said, his voice enveloped in a faint European accent that John couldn't pin-point right now; all he knew was that the man wasn't American, as opposed to him.

John lazily waved his hand in the air. "It has beer," he said drunkenly, "and it has women. It's all I need." In response, the man shook his head and scooted closer to him, watching the bartender intently.

"I can't find the beauty in the asari," said the man, frowning as his eyes trailed the mono-gendered woman. "They look like squids. The real difference is that one lives in the water—"he took a sip of his drink, "and one can read your thoughts. I find solace in neither of them."

The Alliance nobody looked at the man as if he'd spoken blasphemy. "Do you not see their curves?" he asked, then eyed the bartender. "Emotions be damned, in my case; the asari have it all, even if they're a thousand years older than me."

Unbeknownst to him, the man's eyes flickered to his pocket, then back to his drink. He shrugged. "I guess you're right, in that sense," he admitted. He took his drink, and then motioned for John to do the same. John raised his beer. "To the asari's beauty," said the man as he clicked his drink against the beer. He put his left hand on John's shoulder, patting him like a man. "And may they bring new experiences to us all!"

The man finished his drink, leaving John with his beer and the view.

He never knew that his AIA identification had been taken from his pocket.

. . .

In Kasumi's eyes, the Citadel was just like Illium, which was just like Omega—a place filled with the ugliest types of criminals that didn't do their jobs for the love; they did it for the money. She loved her profession, and it was her passion what made her excel in her line of work, but she couldn't quite fathom _why _someone would put their freedom at risk for the sake of having credits to waste in their lifetime.

Cloaked, she observed the desolated turian shelter in great detail. Off in the distance, she could see a turian—the only one she had seen in the shelter, ironically—trading with what appeared to be a homeless human man; his face dirty, his clothing ragged. But that wasn't what caught her attention—it was a pair of armed turians what she was interested in.

The leader was a turian donning blue armour with red details. On his back, he held weapons of every kind, from assault rifles to an alien version of a dagger. Surprisingly, he walked alongside two other turians. Her eyes narrowed as he walked towards a shelter—a shelter that was filled with quarian pilgrims. The mercs took out their weapons, aiming it at the structure filled with pilgrims.

Now, she knew that this was the group of men that Jim had told her about. They were about to search the quarians, and in his apartment, he had two quarians with critical data. She captured the location with her omni-tool's GPS, and moved closer to the mercs to see them better. Just then, the turian commander pulled out his assault rifle and forcefully motioned for the quarians to exit the makeshift shelter; the others aiming their weapons directly at them.

Her eyebrows rose immediately. Were they seriously going to kill the quarians, even if they didn't even _know _what the mercs were demanding? Her eyes captured those of a quarian, who was just a bit taller than her. Her envirosuit was just like any other quarian Kasumi had seen: snug, and adorned personal decorations. Her envirosuit was dark grey, and it was decorated with a bright orange cloth. Trembling furiously, her hands came up in a gesture of surrender as she placed them on the back of her helmet.

The shouts of the merc in front of her were frantic, yet Kasumi couldn't quite understand what he was saying. However, she saw one thing that left her afraid—yet awfully motivated to do _something_. The merc, with force, put the muzzle of his assault rifle on her orange faceplate with such force that Kasumi flinched, thinking that he had somehow damaged her life-giving suit.

This reminded Kasumi of a contract she once did. The thief was hired to rescue a girl, a young artist, from a batarian slave ship. She sneaked into the ship, found the girl, and freed her, stowing away on another cargo ship. In return, the young artist had painted something for Kasumi; watching her work was one of the most impressive acts that the thief had ever seen in her life. She still had the painting, and it was one of the favourites in her collection.

Deciding not to watch, but to _act¸_ Kasumi put the rescue mission aside and left her hiding place and moved to find a way to help the pilgrims.

. . .

Trembling like she never had before, Sierra'Turz nar Kiev—a spaceship bought from the humans—obeyed the order the turian gave her. She didn't know what to do; it was the first time someone had aimed a weapon—a _weapon_—at her. "Do you know where the data is?" the turian with the blue and red armour demanded, his creaky voice intimidating the young quarian.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out her mouth. Frightened, she quickly shook her head, managing to mutter a weak, "No." She didn't even know what they were demanding; only that it was something about a data. This place, this turian shelter, had been her home throughout the time she spent in the Citadel, and to see it being stripped away so callously by… mercs? She didn't know, but she knew one thing was clear in her mind: they were criminals. "I—I don't even know what you're looking for," she stammered, feeling her heart trying to pop out of her suit. She could hear her heartbeat echoing in her ears; a tingling sensation in her hands. "Who… who are you?"

"Jacobus," he answered, stepping closer to her. "And you're telling lies. All quarians are the same—thieves, beggars, and they all know each other." He pressed the muzzle of his assault rifle as harshly as possible against her faceplate. "There are no other turian shelters—the only place where your scum is accepted—in the Citadel. If you are hiding something from me, you will die." Awaiting her fate, she closed her eyes. The turian's voice rang against her ear, and she could imagine him just as if it was a nightmare. "I will give you one final chance: where is the data?"

She took a breath, a ragged one, and felt her hands cease in movement. "I… I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go," she pleaded in vain.

"Not possible." She could almost sense him taking his time, thinking how he could kill her. Would he be quick with it and just shoot her? Or would he take his time, satisfying the curiosity that every non-quarian had—exposing what her race looked like under her envirosuit? Either way, she knew that she couldn't run, for she and her quarian friends were cornered by these… these criminals, these monsters. She shut her eyes even tighter, but nonetheless, she felt the tears escape her eyes. Was this the end for her?

Not long after, she heard a loud booming sound.

Her world still remained dark.

. . .

Without any hesitation, Kasumi pulled the trigger and as her surroundings erupted in total havoc. She was accustomed to carrying a weapon, even though she rarely used it—only in dire circumstances such as the one at present, when someone's life was at risk. She was relieved to see that the other quarians used the diversion to attack the remaining turian.

She watched as the quarian with the orange details remained motionless as the turian's body collapsed to the floor; his blue blood splattered all over her faceplate. The weapon, which had previously threatened to take away her life, now had fallen between her boots, but the glowing dots of the quarian's eyes were yet to be seen.

Acting in defence of the quarians, she overloaded the other turian merc. With the other quarians taking care of the remaining turian, Kasumi did something she rarely—if ever—did: she de-cloaked, and then bent down to pick up the fallen weapon. She raised the weapon with her palms up sigh no harm intended to the quarian, who was still paralysed with fear.

Slowly, she opened her eyes as if she were surprised to even be alive. "Is he… is he dead?" she asked, looking not at the weapon Kasumi held innocently, but at the corpse of the turian. The pilgrim shook her head many times.

Just then, Kasumi heard a booming sound that made her ears echo with it. Immediately, she turned to face the anomaly, which was one of the quarians shooting at the remaining merc in the head. Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the young quarian. Alarmed, one of the other quarians, the one that had pulled the trigger, ran towards the paralysed young woman and wrapped one of his arms around her shoulder. "Thank you," he said to Kasumi over the woman's shoulder, sounding genuinely grateful. "I… I don't think what we would do without your help—whoever you are." The thief was sure that he was eyeing her hood, eyes narrowing momentarily. He had a darker envirosuit, adorned with green details.

Another one of the quarians, the one that was awkwardly looting the body—doing his best to _survive, _no doubt—approached Kasumi. Not saying a word, he extended his trembling hands, silently asking for the weapon. Not wanting to carry it, and certain that neither of them were hostile, she gave him the weapon. He put it in its rightful place—the magnetic holster on his upper back.

Kasumi nodded, and then looked at the corpse of the merc commander. She didn't know why Jim wanted information on this turian, but she was sure that he would at least understand the circumstances; that the quarians' life were at risk with the mercs.

She turned her attention to the frightened quarian. She had her palms pressed against the man's chest, her face—or helmet—buried in his neck as she sobbed quietly. The image brought Kasumi too many emotions; it reminded her of Keiji and her.

"I… I think you should leave the Citadel," advised the thief, "before C-Sec gets here." Without letting any of them say anything else, the enigmatic woman cloaked, took the merc commander's omni-tool, and left the scene, silently wishing luck for the young quarians.

. . .

Keenah's spine cracked as he rolled on his side, absently staring at the blood-coloured wall. Even though he didn't quite trust the human, he had to give him his thanks; the mattress he slept in was completely remarkable, incomparable to the flotilla's cots. He looked above him, where Tali was resting. The bed was about two metres wide—an amazing size, Keenah noted—and it had another mattress that could be pulled from below it, letting another person sleep in it. A part of him wondered how many quarians could sleep here. The entire size of the room could make do for about two quarian families, maybe even three, if the compartments were as small as the Honorata's.

_Ah, the Honorata, _thought the quarian pilot, balling his fingers into fists. His home had been destroyed at Illium by Commander Jacobus's men, all because of a Pilgrimage gift. He did not have any problems with Tali'Zorah—she was, after all, the daughter of Admiral Zorah—but he did have troubles with her way of thinking. Did she not see what this data—this _evidence_—could do to the Migrant Fleet? In the pilot's eyes, if done correctly, the Admiralty Board could use her evidence to barter with the Council; this time, with something of leverage. Or maybe even, if they were willing to play dirty, they could use that data to make deals with the Alliance; maybe the humans could pass over one of their planets, since they possessed so many at this point.

But that was just wishful thinking.

When Keenah had been on Pilgrimage, the humans had already been around, and the instructors aboard the flotilla had captured them perfectly: reckless, relentless, and self-centred. He shook his head at his thoughts. They were exactly what the quarian race wasn't.

He did half a sit-up, looking at the clock on the end-table. He didn't understand human hours, but it said it was 0318 hours. Checking in on Tali, who was facing away from him, he lay back down and activated his omni-tool, verifying the hour in quarian time. Satisfied with the translation, he checked his inbox, where a message from the Conclave had waited to be opened. He sighed quietly as he opened it.

_From: Captain Kar'Danna vas Rayya_

_To: Keenah'Breizh vas Honorata_

_Subject: Honorata's Return_

_Keenah'Breizh vas Honorata, _

_I am writing you on behalf of the Conclave. According to the Rayya's most recent reports, one of our crew, Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, recently departed on her Pilgrimage through the transport ship Honorata, the ship that you pilot. Enough time has passed, and you have not yet reported to the Migrant Fleet. We are assuming two things: that either something has happened to the Honorata, or you have committed a serious crime against the quarian people. _

_If you do not report to the Conclave in two solar days, we will assume the latter, involving the Admiralty Board in the situation, and charging you for treason—exiling you from the Migrant Fleet. _

_Captain Kar'Danna vas Rayya_

_Representative of the Conclave _

Without blinking, Keenah slowly lowered his hand; the omni-tool's orange glow still visible through his peripheral vision. He stared at the wall, unmoving. Stealing a ship was, in quarian culture, an unforgivable act with only one outcome: treason.

For his entire life—twenty-nine years—the Migrant Fleet had been Keenah's home. The only fraction of the galaxy he had ever seen was on his Pilgrimage, and it was the most awful period of his lifetime. Every day, he only wished that he could find something to prove himself, just to be back in the fleet, the only place where quarians were treated like _people, _like normal beings. What was he to say to the Conclave? That Rael'Zorah's daughter had found data so valuable, and denied to bring it to her people, for the sake of the humans? That the Honorata, a ship that could later be used as a home for quarians, had been destroyed thanks to the pilgrim's findings?

More importantly: was he to put his needs ahead of Tali's? Doing what any quarian would call a blasphemy? Or would she understand his position?

His need to sleep gone, he stood up and headed out the bedroom, crossing the corridor into the human's living room.

. . .

Jim had always taken pride in being a night owl. Whenever most other people were asleep, he was awake, working and doing his thing. Not only did it give him solitude, it gave him privacy.

Under a bright light that made him feel as if he was in a sauna, he slowly peeled off the outer layer of the AIA identification card with a light touch, not wanting to damage it.

John Hamilton was an easy target for the former agent. Security guards in the Agency had clearance for every level of their headquarters in the Citadel, and a drunken man that held that position was exceptionally easy prey for a man of Jim's talents—a Clandestine Service-trained agent against a man that didn't even pass training in the United North American States.

Jim liked to consider himself lucky, for he didn't train in the UNAS, but across the pond, in Europe. From what he had heard, training in the States was dull; the trainees stayed in the same location—"The Farm"—for the length of the training, which was eighteen months. Thanks to his training, he had the opportunity to travel all across Europe; from Italy to Ukraine, from London to Switzerland, and many other locations across the continent. Although he didn't see the logic in it—they all ended up scattered throughout Earth or in the field, regardless of the starting country—it had given him a chance to travel across his homeworld.

Narrowing his eyes, Jim slowly brought a portable, pen-sized heater to the edges of Hamilton's two-by-two photo. As they slowly began to unglue, he, with dark gloves, pulled it out carefully. He took his two-by-two photo and double-checked the location, that it was perfectly aligned. When he was satisfied, he glued his photo, placing it firmly in place.

Since the words "_JOHN HAMILTON" _were written in the most mainstream letter shape possible—Times New Roman—and had a white background, Jim only needed a white piece of paper with his alias, Jaime Walker, to keep the illusion. Paper was a rare thing to find these days, but for the right price, he got everything he needed.

In the system, it log in as John Hamilton was the one entering and exiting the building. Jim understood that he needed to avoid all security cameras and, most importantly, guards. Although it wasn't going to be the first time he had infiltrated a place, it was the first time he was going to infiltrate a facility that he hadn't set set foot in years.

He was as equally trained as the others that worked there; he was going against people of his own kind—clandestine agents, trained to observe, lie, and exploit.

The criminal covered the identification with the thin plastic layer, careful not to leave any air bubbles. Satisfied with his work, he leaned back into the chair, crossing one of his legs atop the other, staring at the ceiling. _Abraham Rumoi... dead, _he thought. For Jim, the news felt like being hit in the chest with a sky-car. He worked with Rumoi for three years, and during those three years, they made a lot of enemies, but one stood out from the crowd. Rumoi proved himself to be a trustworthy man, and for him to be killed was just… unfair. But it was life's most important lesson—everything was unfair.

His trained ears, now on alert, picked up almost silent footsteps. With the foot that remained on the floor, he swivelled his chair about, immediately hearing a crackling sound.

Kasumi's small, hooded frame appeared. She was walking towards him; the only visible feature of her face was her lips, which had a purple, vertical line painted down the centre. Greeting her, Jim stood up, "Kasumi." Something about the way she was walking told him that there was something odd. She reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out a small, square device—an omni-tool. Frowning as she handed it to him, Jim asked, "What's wrong?"

"Saren's men—they were turians, right?"

"I would assume that," Jim replied. "I'd need to ask Tali about that. Why?" The thief motioned to the omni-tool he held between his fingers, twirling it curiously. She explained to him how she found the turian mercs trying to raid the shelter and almost killing the quarians. "So you killed him?" Jim asked, unfazed.

She nodded. "I had to. If not, then…"

"Then he would've killed the quarians," he finished for her, arching his eyebrow. In response, she nodded. He frowned as he checked the omni-tool, narrowing his eyes. If Kasumi killed Jacobus, then not only did she get a stone out of his way, but she obtained valuable intelligence with this omni-tool. He put the omni-tool in his pocket and sat down on the edge of his bed, motioning for her to do the same in the office chair he was formerly occupying. "Honestly, you did me a favour—now I have fewer things to worry about."

With a flick of her arm, she activated her omni-tool and requested a file transfer. "This is everything you asked for," she said, and then shrugged. "But I doubt that you'll need it anyway. Where's your part of the deal?"

He received the files and lowered his arm; the omni-tool disappearing. _C-Sec is my back-up plan, _he thought, and then prepared himself to speak of the past. "I worked with Rumoi for three years," he said. "We got intelligence from every corner of the galaxy. Slavers, intergalactic terrorists—you name it." He crossed his left leg over the other. "But there was this proliferator, essentially a ghost that was just so… reckless, so deprived of human emotion."

. . .

Something was clear in Kasumi's mind: if someone was willing to crack-open a skull to get a neural implant, then that person was completely crazy. Feeling a spark of hope in her heart, she leaned forward. "Who was he?" she asked, looking at Jim's eyes. He sighed, and for a second, he displayed disappointment.

"We never cracked the name," he said quietly. "But the man was obsessed with violence; I still think he's a psychopath."

Immediately, the thief assumed the worst. "You played me for data?!" she demanded, standing up with her fists clenched.

He waved his hand. "Sit down, I'm not done yet." She didn't comply; she only looked at him, expecting him to keep talking. Instead, he stood up and walked towards the desk, picking up a small identification. He tossed it to her. "Alliance Tower ID. I lifted it from my 'friend' in the Lower Wards, made an illusion. We have similar goals, Kasumi—the result of which are inside of the Alliance Tower." He paused to let it sink in. "Neither Rumoi nor I managed to crack the name, but that was years ago; the Agency must have more intelligence on him now, considering the threat he was—no, _is_."

Kasumi narrowed her eyes. "What are you suggesting?" she asked. "I thought you said nothing illegal."

"I got bored," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging. "Besides," he added, "I owe you for taking Jacobus out of the way." He extended his hand. Kasumi looked at it, and then back at his eyes. He sighed. "Trust me when I say that I wouldn't play one of the best thieves in the galaxy for intelligence."

She chuckled. "You say the nicest things," she said as she shook it.

"Good. Now let's get to work."

. . .

On the other side of the door, Keenah listened to the humans' conversation. He had no idea with whom he was talking to, but he knew that he had one thing clear: Jim was a criminal. _I knew it, _he thought; the grim news that the fleet had sent him now replaced by a closer reality. Now, since he'd heard that Commander Jacobus was dead, it could make an escape easier. If Tali wanted to help the humans, then she was going to have to find another way, for he was not working with a criminal—and he was not going to risk his life in the Migrant Fleet for that.

As quietly as he could, he walked towards the guest bedroom.

Tali'Zorah's Pilgrimage was in her hands, but she had to know about this.

. . .

The relatively subtle whir of the shuttle's engines made Miranda Lawson close her eyes and enjoy the solitude she had… at least for now. Slowly, she brought the glass of wine she held to her mouth, cherishing the liquid satisfaction the beverage provided for her. She concentrated on hearing the soft classical music she had in the background, giving the dimmed cabin an ambient feeling.

The past few days had been quite hectic, even for Miranda's heightened standards. She had been travelling non-stop throughout the week, and now, she was on her way to Earth, her homeworld.

Although the Cerberus officer had grown up on Earth, in Sydney, and her father had paid for the most top-notch education money could buy, she still had much to see in her homeworld. These assignments, given by Cerberus's leader, the Illusive Man, gave her a chance to see the cultures—from bizarre to awe-inspiring—that the Milky Way had to offer.

Much to her displease the computer terminal on her desk beeped. Putting on her stoic façade, she accepted the incoming call that came from a "blocked sender"—the Illusive Man, in cryptic terms. "Miranda," he said, smoke slowly leaving his mouth. "How was the exchange with Officer T'Les?"

Her superior's icy, cybernetic eyes locked with hers. His greying hair did little to hide his age, compared to the wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. However, the man's choice in attire never changed, for he always wore the same black and white, custom-tailored suit. She had to admit that sometimes, the Illusive Man's eyes were a bit disconcerting to her. She imagined that he was capable of giving somebody else a nightmare with them, but nonetheless, he was humanity's most dedicated advocate, even if it was unofficial. Cerberus was humanity's saviour; the only organisation willing to hold her race's roots and find ways to improve themselves—independently, without the help of other races.

"Everything went as planned," answered the Cerberus officer. "A team of our operatives are conducting the exchange as we speak."

Nodding in satisfaction, the Illusive Man brought the never-absent scotch to his lips. Seconds passed as he swallowed, and Miranda waited patiently for his reply. "I take it you're on your way to Earth, then?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice as smooth as silk. "To an interesting location, in fact—Florence."

"Well, now." He took a drag off his cigarette. "It's best I leave you to it. Contact me when you have any news on your progress."

With that, the computer's screen went blank, leaving Miranda to her wine and with her only reliable friend: solitude.


End file.
